


Down to This

by Mireille



Series: Under Your Skin [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, OliverPercyImprov list, Written Pre-Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-18
Updated: 2002-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: The truth hurts.





	Down to This

   
  
---  
  
He'd given up all hope of sleep an hour ago. Now, he'd settle for fifteen minutes of not thinking. Not wondering what he'd been about to say to Marcus before he'd given it up as a bad idea. Not wondering why the hell he  _did_  bother, when it appeared that he was wasting his time.

This was supposed to have been simple. A few casual fucks, and then he'd supposed they'd move on; he'd done it before and assumed Marcus had done the same.

Only they hadn't moved on. Only, instead of getting bored, Oliver had found himself in over his head. Had found himself  _noticing_  Marcus. Not just seeing him--Gryffindor and Slytherin had several classes together, after all, and now that Marcus was back for a second attempt at his seventh year, he saw Marcus almost every day. But noticing him. Being aware, somewhere beneath his skin, of the precise spot in the room where Marcus was. Finding himself paying attention to what he said, where he went, who he talked to. Who he looked at.

Paying enough attention to realize things he'd never bothered to before: the fact that Marcus wasn't actually all that dense if he gave a damn about what was going on; that he had the exact same look of triumph when he scored a goal in Quidditch as he had the first time he'd made Oliver come. That mostly, these days, who he looked at was Oliver.

He'd been thinking about Marcus more often, too, and not just the kind of thoughts that he tried--and failed--to save up for late at night, when he was restless and horny and couldn't sleep. No, these were...stupid thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. The kind of thoughts that led to backing Marcus against a wall and saying, "I wonder what would happen if I--" even though he had no idea what he was going to say next.

He wanted more than this. Wanted...he wasn't sure *what* he wanted. Marcus. He knew that. He didn't know  _why,_  wasn't sure what this said about his mental stability ("One too many Bludgers to the head," he could hear the twins saying--once they stopped laughing, at least), but then again, he'd never been in favor of overanalyzing things. And "why" didn't matter all that much, he supposed.

So he'd pushed, had tried to make Marcus understand, and everything had gone to hell.  _*I should probably just give up._

But he couldn't. That'd be  _easy_ , and if he'd been in favor of doing things the easy way, he'd made a huge mistake fucking Marcus Flint in the first place.  _First rule of Quidditch: never admit you're beaten until the other team has the Snitch._

He'd just have to push harder.

***

"I thought you didn't know why you bother with me," Marcus said when Oliver climbed up through the trapdoor into the Divination classroom.

He couldn't answer right away; he was too busy trying to convince his lungs that they really did want to inhale the overly scented air. Maybe his choice of room had been a mistake; he'd assumed that when class wasn't in session, the room wouldn't reek of the incense Professor Trelawney favored. It appeared, however, that the only smell more cloying than freshly burning incense was the stale remnant of incense smoke. His eyes burned from the scent, something like rotting flowers and desperation.

Still, the chairs were comfortable--and some of them big enough for two, if you didn't mind sitting close--and it was a lot warmer than the astronomy tower. A lot less popular, too. He'd take the risk of being caught fooling around with Marcus--it wasn't like they'd be the first in school history, or even this year--but he  _really_  didn't want to be overheard making a fool of himself.

Marcus took his silence as a challenge. "In fact, I believe the word was 'pathetic,' wasn't it?"

Oliver didn't say anything, just crossed the room to stand directly in front of Marcus's chair. Marcus looked up at him, his gaze traveling the length of Oliver's body, and Oliver had to smile to himself.  _At least he can't tell me he doesn't want me. Not when he's looking at me that._  The thought gave him a little more courage; this had seemed perfectly straightforward in his head, but with Marcus scowling up at him, the words were drying up in his throat.

"So? If you hate this so damn much, why are we here?"

_Don't back down now,_  he ordered himself. "The other night, on the tower--I wasn't going to come back. I was--I am--sick of the whole mess. But..." He sighed. It all made sense to him, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to explain it to anyone else, even Marcus.  _Especially_  Marcus. "I want you. And no, that's not what I meant," he added, when Marcus grinned and started to reach toward him. "I want *you.* I want to be around you, even when we're not fucking. I want to argue with you about whether or not the Arrows suck--which, by the way, they do--and study with you, and listen to you bitch about how much you hate Transfiguration, and just, in general, be  _with_  you. And so." A shrug. "Here I am."

"What are you talking about?" Marcus stared at him for a minute. Then, slowly, "Are you trying to tell me that you're fucking in  _love_  with me?"

Oliver shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Don't be an idiot," Marcus said. "You're here for the same reason I am: to get off."

He snorted. "If that's all I wanted, I could get better elsewhere, trust me. Not," he added, "that I don't think you could do better if you tried--but you've got to admit, if this were Quidditch--" he resisted the urge to grin at Marcus's exasperated glare-- "a quick handjob on the astronomy tower would barely qualify us for the Cannons."

"Do you  _ever_  think of anything besides Quidditch?" Marcus asked.

He took a deep breath. "You."

"Don't try to turn me into your fucking  _boyfriend_ ," Marcus sneered, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair.

"Did I use the word 'boyfriend'?"  _What do you think I am, a thirteen-year-old girl?_  he wanted to add, but from the expression on Marcus's face, it was probably best not to give him an opening like that.

"It's what you meant." His fingers clenched the chair again.

"For the sake of an argument, let's say it is. Why is that so terrible? After all, Marcus, I know you. I know you're obnoxious. In spite of that--hell, I don't know, maybe because of it--I still want you." Marcus was still giving him that disgusted look. Rolling his eyes, he added, "It's not like I'm going to suddenly start expecting you to  _cuddle_  or anything, if that's what you're afraid of. If that was what I wanted, I'd have gone after someone like Cedric, not a bad-tempered bastard of a Slytherin."

"But you've all of a sudden decided you're in love with me."

"It wasn't all of a sudden," he muttered. And it hadn't been; it had been six years of fear shading into contempt shading into annoyance into grudging almost-respect into desire into...love. Maybe. Yeah. More than maybe.

Marcus wasn't even looking at him. "I never thought that Oliver Wood would wind up going soft."

Soft? Whoever had told Marcus that love was  _soft_  was insane. This wasn't anything like soft. This had teeth; it ripped and bit and tore and didn't give him a chance to catch his breath before it started all over again the next time Marcus looked at him. Or didn't. Or breathed. Or, basically, anything.  _I am so completely fucked._

"You think this is going soft?" he said, hurt giving his voice a bitter edge. "You think this is some kind of sappy romantic bullshit?" And then, before he was really aware of what he was doing, he was on top of Marcus in the oversized chair, twisting around to face him, to pin him down and kiss him, putting all his frustration and pain and desperate, raw, helpless need into it.  _Tell me this is fucking soft._  Kissed him again and again, hard enough to bruise, nipping at Marcus's lower lip sharply enough that he tasted blood; and--miraculously--Marcus kissed him back, their mouths fusing together into something hot and wet and oh. Perfect.

And oh, he wanted more. Needed more. He broke the kiss with a brief stab of regret, sliding down off the chair to wind up kneeling between Marcus's splayed legs. Breathed in the rich scent of Marcus's arousal as he reached up to--

Marcus shoved him away with one hand, the other clenched so tightly the knuckles bled white. "Get the hell away from me," he said, his voice not quite shaking.

"As soon as you tell me you don't want me as much as I want you.  _Want_ , Marcus. I'm not asking for anything more."  _I know you do. You couldn't have kissed me like that if you didn't._

"You're lucky you're not getting punched in the mouth for asking for even that." And at last, he released his death-grip on the chair, got up, and left without another word.

_Well, I_ was _wondering what would happen._

But they'd come so close. He'd  _felt_  it when he'd kissed Marcus, even when Marcus had clutched at that chair like a lifeline. "What the hell are you afraid of?" Oliver demanded. The chair was every bit as likely to answer as Marcus, after all; no need for him to actually be there.

"This isn't over yet, Flint," he said, remembering the unbelievable  _rightness_  of that kiss.  _That's what we've been dancing around for three months. That's what we've been trying--what he's been trying--to avoid. That's what I'm not fucking_ letting _him run away from any more._

_Oh, no. It's not over. It's hardly even started._  
  
**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


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